


Anaan Maraas Qun

by taispeantas_laethuil



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe- Qunari, Angst, Crisis of Faith, Dehumanization, Drama, Identity Issues, Multi, Saarebas, Tal-Vashoth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-30
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-24 01:46:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4900807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taispeantas_laethuil/pseuds/taispeantas_laethuil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which everyone lives under the Qun, right up until they don't. </p><p>A series of nonlinear ficlets based on the kinkmeme prompt asking for fic where everyone in the Inner Circle is capital Q Qunari.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dangerous Things

**Author's Note:**

> [The prompt:](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/15060.html?thread=58803412#t58803412) "Adaar is at the Temple of Sacred Ashes to spy on the proceedings for the Qun when he grabs the orb and receives the anchor. The Chantry is pissed that the Qunari have been spying on them, but eventually agree to an alliance. They need Adaar to heal the breach and besides, who better to fight Tevinters than Qunari? Along with Adaar, the Qunari send in several other members to ensure things go according to their plans.
> 
> Dorian, Vivienne, and Solas are all Saarebas. Dorian was captured in a raid along the Tevinter coast, Vivienne was sent to Dairsmuid instead of Montsimmard and when the Templars annulled Dairsmuid she fled for her life and ended up in Qunari hands, Solas ended up wandering into Qunari lands accidentally not long after he awoke and was quickly taken captive because the Qunari took one look at this crazy powerful elf and was not going to let him go free. All three of them have had their stitches removed; an acceptable risk as they have information the Qunari need. Dorian for his knowledge for Tevinter, Vivienne for Chantry politics, and Solas for the Fade.
> 
> Cullen is their Arvaarad and joined the Qunari during that mess in Kirkwall. He initially turned to the Qunari because he was still angry and traumatized by what happened in Kinloch Hold and thought they had the right idea about mages. But actually seeing what hey do up close has soured his outlook. He'd take the risk and leave, become Tal-Vashoth, but there is no way he can escape with three Saarebas and he can't leave them.
> 
> Cassandra is another Arvaarad, only she's there to control Adaar. Despite being a warrior/rogue, their anchor means that they are now considered Saarebas. This throws Adaar for a fucking loop. Of course, he/she and Cassandra butt heads. Often. The South would never accept the Qunari delegation if their precious Herald is bound and leashed, so the Qunari allow Adaar to be free so long as Cassandra is with him/her at all times.
> 
> Blackwall is a Sten. He joined the Qunari after the disastrous murder of the nobleman and his family instead of attempting to become a Warden. Unlike many of the others, Blackwall feels indebted to the Qun because it gave him a new lease on life.
> 
> Leliana is a Tallis. She followed Sten after the Fifth Blight and the death of her lover, the Warden. The Qunari view all races as equal, something she wishes the South would accept, though she disagrees on the treatment of mages. But she thinks she can change the system from the inside.
> 
> Josephine is a Tamassran. She used to teach those chosen to become Ben-Hassrath all of the myriad intricacies of Southern politics and languages. They sent her to the South because she is the best expert they have. Instead of fleeing from Orlais to Antiva, her family moved to Rivain where they eventually converted to the Qun.
> 
> Sera is training to be a Tallis under Leliana and Josephine's watchful eyes. The Qunari were unsure of whether they should let her go back out into the world since she is still rebellious and full of anger.
> 
> Like Josephine, Varric's family also moved to Rivain after leaving Orzammar and from there converted to the Qun. He is a Hissrad, like Iron Bull. Unlike Bull, Varric doesn't tell anyone that he is Hissrad or even Qunari. Everyone - Adaar, Cullen, Cassandra, even Bull - all believe him to be bas, the funny dwarf from Kirkwall. The Qunari want him to report on the other members of the Inner Circle to make sure they're not straying.
> 
> Iron Bull and Cole's background remain the same."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet the Saarebas. They are not happy to meet you.

The two other saarebas he was being moved with were both human: and both fellow unwilling converts and qamek survivors. They too had had their stitches removed, though of course they were all still collared and muzzled. That spoke of a certainty of self, and a value of expertise, which Solas would be a fool to ignore. Still, there was no need to behave precipitously, especially when he could feel their eyes upon him, trying to take his measure.

As a somniari, he had more to rely on than just his eyes.

From their dreams and memories, he grew to know them rather well.

The man was the youngest of them, just now turning thirty, but he had been the Qun’s for the longest. He’d was from Tevinter, and a life of privilege that seemed almost otherworldly in his mind now, and had run from it because of something that caused his childhood recollections to be tainted with blood, dribbling down from the walls and dripping from his parents’ mouths. He was seasick, but did not vomit: his memories of the first arvaarad who was assigned to handle him were strong and sharp. He’d gotten sick on the boat to Seheron, and been made to kneel in it, a boot pressing his face in the mess as he retched, and he had not been allowed to wash for weeks afterwards. It had been only the beginning. This new arvaarad they shared, the human viddathari who kept speaking to them as though to make them think him their friend, would be the seventh arvaarad he had belonged to.

The woman was not quite yet fifty, and had also come from privilege of a kind. She had been a Seer in her homeland, and then an ambassador, and then the arcane advisor to the Empress and the beloved mistress of a Duke. She missed her lover terribly, an ache she ignored lest it flare up into a sharper cutting pain. She had willingly submitted to the Qun initially, fleeing from the annulment of her Circle in Dairsmuid just over a year prior. A leash can be pulled from either end, or so she had reasoned, confident in her abilities to manipulate whatever keeper was assigned to her and escape once the danger from the Templars had passed. The tamassrans did not warn her before they brought out the qamek, and now she remained, a perfect picture of submission over an unyielding steel core, going where she was directed without complaint in the hopes of lulling their captors into a false sense of superiority.

He was nauseous, and terrified, but simmering beneath all that was anger, bright and hot and waiting for an opportune moment to explode. She was calm and patient and obedient, a mask over fury and power waiting for the right moment to cut her leash.

These were to be his allies then: two shemlen who would probably have never let him get a word in edgewise had things gone better for them, now reduced to their most stubborn selves, black powder and cold iron.

He could do worse. Had done worse, in truth.

“Well, this is the Fade,” the man remarked, taking in the sight of the safehouse Fen’Harel had once used in Arlathan. He looked younger in his dreams: elaborately dressed in expensive silks and heavy jewels, the web of qamek scars that peaked out above his collar in the waking world gone as though they had never been. “But this is not my dream.”

“Nor mine.” The woman looked much the same, save for her clothes: the silvery adornments of a Seer and a horned mask from Orlais. It made her look like a tamassran, a fact which could not be anything but intentional.

“It’s mine,” Solas explained. “I’ve brought you here because it may be the only place we can speak openly without fear of being overheard.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed. The man’s eyes widened.

“You’re a Dreamer,” he blurted out.

“As good a word for what I am as any, I suppose,” Solas replied.

The man laughed. “How the fuck are you not dead?”

“I may have neglected to mention that fact to my interrogators when I was captured,” Solas explained. “In any event, I doubt they have much knowledge of mages of my caliber.”

The man continued to chuckle, a faint note of hysteria to it. The woman regarded them coolly, her face no less revealing than her mask.

“Sorry, I just- I- Maker, it has been years since I last spoke outside of an interrogation,” the human explained with a slight wave of his hand, still sniggering slightly. “ _Years_ , sweet Maker, and you’re…”

“I am to be called Solas, if there are to be introductions,” Solas interrupted.

“I am Vivienne,” the woman introduced herself. “Also known as Madame de Fer, First Seer of the Circle of Dairsmuid, former Rivaini Ambassador and Arcane Advisor to the Court of Her Imperial Highness Empress Celene I, and- very curious as to why you are only contacting us now.”

Solas waited with a pointed look at the other human, who was still trying to get his giggling under control.

“Sorry I- I’m Dorian. Dorian of House Pavus. Well, _formerly_ of House Pavus, I’m sure my father disowned me well before I fell into the Qunari’s clutches. I was also an Enchanter at the Minrathous Circle, and in possession of far better manners than I’m currently displaying,” Dorian said. He bowed with a flourish. “How do you do?”

“Charmed, I’m sure,” Vivienne replied, sounding the farthest thing from charmed. “You have not answered my question, Solas. We three have been sharing a cell aboard the same ship for nearly three weeks now. Why are you only bringing us together now?”

“I was… biding my time. I’m sure you can understand my desire for caution, give what I am and what we are considered to be,” Solas explained.

“Things,” Dorian said with a snort.

“ _Dangerous_ things,” Vivienne corrected him. “More dangerous than they know, it seems.”

“Do you have some sort of end goal in mind?” Dorian asked. “Or is this a social visit? Not that I’m complaining, mind. Social visits are one of those people things that I miss having.”

“Well, eventually, I hope the three of us will escape,” Solas said. “As that seems unwise to attempt while traversing a sea, I hoped to spend this night ensuring that we are all of a mind.”

“I doubt either of us wishes to remain here,” Vivienne said, but Dorian looked less certain.

“It’s not as though I don’t want to escape,” he said, after a moment of increasingly hostile silence. “But rather that I’ve already tried. I tried nearly constantly the entire first year or so that they had me. The new arvaarad will know to keep an eye on me.”

 _You’ll have a better chance without me_ , he didn’t say, but it was clear from expression on his face that he expected to be sent away.

“So you know what doesn’t work, then,” Solas surmised. “That’s a good place for us to start planning from.”

“If we know that his focus will be on you, then we can use that as well,” Vivienne added. “I assume you can handle being distracting, my dear?”

“Of course,” Dorian replied, barely disguised relief evident in his tone. “I’m a terrible show-off, I’ll have you know.”

“They will expect no trouble from me,” Vivienne continued. “I’ve made certain that they think that I’ve submitted to the Qun.”

“We can use that as well,” Solas agreed. “The Qun has only laid claim to me for a period of some months. They appear to be under the impression that I have a great deal of knowledge about the Veil, and very little talent for casting.”

“Very much not the case, I take it?” Dorian asked.

“Well,” Solas replied, smiling a little _too_ wolfishly, to judge by his companions' perturbed expressions. “I _do_ have a great deal of knowledge about the Veil. They’re not wrong about that.”

“So, they won’t be expecting much from you in the way of spells,” Dorian said.

“On the other hand, they will be guarding you closely, so they do not lose a valuable resource,” Vivienne pointed out. “I presume your knowledge of the Veil is why you’ve been brought to this Inquisition?”

Solas nodded. “And you are here for your insider’s knowledge of Orlesean politics, and you…”

“Oh, apparently my former mentor went mad and joined a Tevinter supremacist cult while I was having my lips sewn shut,” Dorian informed them, affecting a shrug. “And if anyone asks, I know much more about it than that.”

He very obviously _did_ know much more about it than that, but Solas was loath to pry where countless interrogators had probably already been digging. Not now, when he needed the man’s trust, at least.

“So, we are agreed,” Solas said. “Before we can be dragged back up north, we will escape.”

“Agreed,” Dorian said.

“Agreed,” said Vivienne.


	2. Letter to the Editor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hissrad checks in with his handler.

To Her Most Supreme Editorialness,

Well, I’ve arrived in the middle of trouble yet again. The good news is that I’m pretty sure I’ll be able to get at least three new serials and a biopic out of this Inquisition. The bad news is that I’m stuck with the Inquisition for the foreseeable future, which means nothing but story notes for you to vet until the world stops ending.

To give you a rough idea of the kind of writing time void I’m currently operating in, let me explain the Inquisition to you. You know how the Chantry (or some segment thereof) declared the Conclave survivor to be the Herald of Andraste? Well, it turns out he’s Qunari. And not just any seven foot tall horned grey-skinned Qunari- this is an actual follower of the Qun, a Ben-Hassrath agent operating under the name Adaar.

The Qun is rightly skeptical of all of this, but the world’s ending and the best tool for stopping that seems to be playing nice with the Chantry, so I guess we’re all stuck together for the time being. They’ve sent an arvaarad, this really grumpy looking human who communicates by disgruntling, to keep an eye on Adaar, who I guess qualifies as a Saarebas now on account of the glowing hand. I’ve heard some of the others refer to this Arvaarad as Tal-Ashkaari, or “Seeker of Truth”, which is funny, because that’s what the organization in charge of the Templars is called. I’m going to call him Seeker, to differentiate between that arvaarad and the one in charge of the actual magic-using saarebas. That one is also human, and looks more sad than grumpy: him, I’ll call Curly, because he kind of reminds me of this Templar that I used to see in the Gallows back in Kirkwall that had noodle hair.

The saarebas themselves are interesting: two humans (one female, one male) and an elf (male). They move like they’ve been together in the same karataam since they were old enough to manifest, but that’s unlikely: they’ve all got qamek scars, so clearly they were converted. I’ve been speaking to some of the Chevaliers that have joined the Inquisition, and they swear up down and sidewise that the woman is a ringer for Madame de Fer, who supposedly died when the Dairsmuid Circle was annulled last year, and they are **_Not Happy_** about it. I’m not sure what the human male’s damage is, except that he’s apparently from Tevinter and seems to be picking a fight every chance he gets. Oh, Curly’s good about keep them leashed and muzzled out in public, like any good Arvaarad should, but body language can say a lot (in this case, mostly “fuck you” with an occasional side of “fuck off”), and I’ve heard a lot of shouting coming from their tent. It’s all “vashedan” this and “parshaara” that and “venak hol” everything. I asked Curly about it, and all he would say was “maraas saarebas”, by which I assume he meant “Why are you talk to me, dwarf?” I have no idea what the elf’s deal is. He’s quiet, even for a saarebas, and no one has recognized him, so the only indication that he’s anyone important is that the Qun saw fit to ship his ass all the way down here.

There are two human women in charge of the whole shebang, a Tallis and a Tamassran. The first one I’m going to call Nightingale, because she seems like the singing type. Word on the street is that she used to be a bard _\- the_ bard, actually, an Orlesian woman named Leliana who used to be the lover of the Hero of Fereldan. Supposedly she returned with a previous Sten of the Beresaad (now the freaking Arishok) and converted after the Hero's death. I think the Tamassran was born under the Qun- she acts like it, for all that she’s very adept at politics and other non-Qunari things. I’m calling her Ruffles, because her clothes seem to be made of them.

They’re aided by the current Sten of the Beresaad, a very hairy human I’m calling Hero, and a Tallis-in-training, a deranged elf I’m calling Buttercup. Hero’s got some kind of tragic backstory, I can tell: he said that the Qun gave him purpose when it seemed to him that there was none left in the world. Details will hopefully be forthcoming. I have no idea what Buttercup’s deal is. She doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, even for a Qunari. Details will likely be confusing.

There’s also another actual Qunari Qunari Ben-Hassrath agent, this one without a glowing hand: Hissrad, known in these parts as the Iron Bull. That’s a little too on the nose, though, so I’m going to call him Tiny. He runs a company of mercs, perhaps best described as a rag-tag group of misfits, and also the best in the business. They’re _fascinating_. I’m going to be spending a lot of time with them, I can already tell.

That’s just about it for the Qunari. The Chantry bunch are boring by comparison. Their leader is Chancellor Roderick Asignon, the highest ranking man to serve in the Chantry. You could probably learn more about him from visiting some parlor in Val Royeaux than listening by to me. He’s assisted by a former Templar, Rahul Trevelyan, a Free Marcher from Ostwick by the sound of him, and not very bright. They’re in contact with a Carta dwarf named Uracca Cadash- that’s where they’re getting their lyrium, or so I would guess, had I not had a talk with Cadash and therefore don’t need to guess. There’s also a Dalish elf hanging around. I don’t think the others want to acknowledge her as part of their group, and I don’t think she’s exactly the Chantry type either, but she’s there, right up until I try to talk to her.

I’m going to have to work on that, but the hole in the sky is taking priority right now.

Let me know if anything jumps out at you. I still want to have an audience when this blows over.

Your faithful servant and favorite liar,

Varric Tethras


	3. On Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters and their musings on faith, religion, devotion, ritual, and prayer.

Dorian still prays. It’s mostly out of spite, and definitely _not_ because he thinks praying will change anything. He knows his canticles: the Maker turned from the world long ago, and won’t start interceding simply because Dorian’s life is miserable. Still, there something viciously satisfying about the act. A saarebas praying to the Maker? It was the very antithesis of what the Qun wanted from him. It’s a comfort, that defiance, knowing that he _can_ be that defiant, and he relishes the small freedom of mouthing the words behind his muzzle without feeling the catch of catgut on his lips. He can even hear the Chant now, sometimes, when Arvaarad VII the Chatty has taken him to the Chantry side of the Inquisition’s camp, or the night is quiet and still. It’s a different Chant, of course, where Andraste wields a sword rather than a staff and brings an end to slavery rather than just the practice of slaughtering slaves in the Temples, but still. It’s not as though the Qun much cares for the Andrastean schism, and he mostly prays out of spite.

Spite, and the fact that he can’t be sure prayers didn’t see him through the qamek with his mind intact.

* * *

Tal-Ashkaari meditates, striving for peace and purpose. It is difficult: the clear lines blurred, the fortifying structures torn away. There is no karataam here, and her saarebas cannot be collared, cannot be bound, and cannot summon flame or ice or lightning from his hand.

“There are no dreams, Arvaarad,” he reports sullenly each morning, and the demons they fight do not come from within him any more than magic does.

Still, he does wield it, and even if it does not come from him, it is on his hand. It is dangerous. The fact that it might be what saves them does not negate this fact. She must be vigilant. She must guard against corruption. Should she fail, it will not be only her failure, but Adaar’s as well.

* * *

When he gets his marching orders his feels his heart stop. He rounds up his boys on autopilot, lets Krem tease him about demons and shit, and then gathers up those of his crew who knew about him for a little talk.

“We’re going to be working with the Qunari on this one,” the Bull tells them. “That might be a problem.”

Krem shrugs. “We like you just fine chief. I’m sure we can manage more of you.”

The Bull shakes his head. “You’re not listening. I’m a shit Qunari. These guys? They won’t be. That’s where the problems might come from.”

“What kind of problems?” Krem asks, suddenly realizing how serious he was being.

“Problems I don’t want any of you to have to deal with,” the Bull says. “So here’s how we’re going to cut them off. Dalish? You’re an archer.”

“Of course I am,” Dalish replies.

“No, you don’t understand. You’re an archer. Find a string for that bow of yours and a quiver full of arrows to shoot. Find the same for the rest of your people, and anyone who can’t shoot straight is going to have to get a convincing polearm. Make sure all of your people know how mix up some grenades and elemental coatings. No one in this company can be a mage. Rocky? Tone it down, and I mean it this time. If the Antaam catches a whiff of anything that smells even a little like gaatlok, then they’re going to come down on you like a dreadnaught at double speed and I can’t stop that. You’re going to have your hands full getting Dalish’s people outfitted anyways. Krem? It shouldn’t be an issue, given that you’re a wanted man in Tevinter, but I still wouldn’t tell anyone your full name. Stitches, Grim, Skinner? You’re all exactly the sort of person the Qun is going to want to turn viddathari, and if anyone asks, I’ve been telling you that for a while and you’re still mulling things over. Don’t let anyone pressure you into anything, and tell your guys that if any of the Qunari have a task for them, no matter how small, then they have to run it by me first.”

“Is that all, Chief?” Stitches asks sarcastically.

“No, it isn’t,” the Bull says, not sarcastically at all. “Look, my orders are to stick close to this Herald. I’m going to be a front-line bodyguard, which means that Krem’s going to be running the Chargers more often than not. There’s also a chance that I might not come back one day. If that happens, you’ve got be prepared.”

“Sure thing, chief,” Krem assures, attempting to lighten the mood. “We’ll have the party to end all parties in your honor.”

“No,” the Bull says flatly. “If I die, Krem, you take the boys and you run.”

* * *

Once she stood on this mountain and felt as though the Maker had smiled upon her. Her love was alive and strong and brave; she had seen the Urn of Sacred Ashes, and witnessed to strength Andraste still wielded from beyond her grave.

Her faith had yet to be shaken by Marjolene’s reappearance in her life. It had yet to be shattered by Solona’s death.

She is a different person now. She is Tallis, a solver, someone who can look at conflicts and find a way through them that did not lead to violence and death needlessly.

Not again. Not ever again. Not when there are other paths.

* * *

This isn’t fair.

It’s not the first time Adaar’s thought that, but most of the time he’s been undercover, posing as a Vashoth mercenary, and he’s been observing the bas as he worked. The bas do a lot of unfair things: he saw it in every noble’s house and alienage slum he’d ever been in.

But this isn’t fair, and it’s coming from the Qun. He didn’t ask for the Mark on his hand, or the Chantry to declare him a Herald of their faith, and he sure as shit didn’t ask for an Arvaarad.

He doesn’t need one. This magic isn’t his. He is under threat from without, and they should be working on a way to free him from it, not guarding him as though he might break out into demons at the changing of the winds.

This isn’t fair.

* * *

She watches the Andrasses do their chanting by the light on the moons. It’s dark enough to see the fires those creepy statues hold in their hands. It’s light enough to watch their faces. That’s what she’s here for. Tama wants her to learn about the people they’re working with. Tallis-an wants her to practice her sneaking.

She thinks she’s sneaking alright. None of the big hats have noticed her yet. She’s not sure what she’s supposed to learn, though. She looks down and she sees a bunch of little people being lied to by a bunch of big people and asking a statue of a dead woman to save them.

She was one of those people once. Weird thought, that.

* * *

Solas does not, and never has, believed in any sort of deity. If there is one thing in the Qun which he might find agreeable, it is this: that gods are liars and illusions meant to appease the desperate and prevent them from realizing the true architects of their desperation. An entity might have power, but that did not make them a god.

Most days, he does not concede even that much truth to the Qun, and contents himself by believing in nothing but the coming destruction of the world they tried to conquer and crush.

* * *

 

He finds himself mouth along with the Chant without thought: _blessed are the peacekeepers, champions of the just_.

He frowns, and tugs Vint to move along to their newest meeting with the Chancellor, harder than he perhaps should. Vint gives him a reproachful look in response, and walks a little more quickly, until he’s having a hard time keeping ahead of him.

“Parshaara, saarebas,” he says, and Vint slows, apparently unwilling to challenge a direct order in public.

Yet, at least. Cullen suppresses the urge to sigh. He hopes that will last.

No, wait. _Arvaarad_ suppresses the urge to sigh. That’s who he is now, and for all that he has come to resent his role, he would not entrust it to any other.

He ignores the Chant, and tries to steady himself.

_Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun. Maraas shokra._

The words of the Qun are as stale and removed as the words of the Chant. It might be, he acknowledges to himself, that he is not cut out for religious life.

* * *

Sten chops wood. It’s not his role, but it’s honest labor which needs doing, and he’s happy to help. The Ari-Tamassran smiles when she sees him, thanking him for his service and his selflessness. The Ari-Tallis smiles as well, speaks of his predecessor: a Sten of the Beresaad who once stood on this same mountain wielding this same sword, and now wields the antaam with the same precision.

He’s proud of that knowledge. Proud, and terrified. His asala has seen the ascendancy of a worthy Arishok: it has faced down darkspawn and demons and all manner of terrors. What if he does not prove equal to his role?

He speaks of his doubts to no one. If he is not equal to his role, then the tamassrans will see it, and see that a more worthy successor is chosen from the ranks of the Beresaad, and he will be as content with that as he is now, chopping wood.

* * *

Vivienne doesn’t pray. Praying is not something she has ever done in earnest: every child of Rivain knows what prayers are for, and they are not for the Maker. They are like the Circle: a way of keeping the Chantry from prying in business not their own, a guard against another mass slaughter as had taken place in Kont-aar after the Llomerryn Accords.

The nobility practice it, of course. Every Rivaini who had any sort of prolonged contact with other lands knew the Chant and how to follow it. As Ambassador, she had attended sermons in the Grand Cathedral, worshipped at services lead by the Divine herself, and could debate obscure bits of theology with the best of them. She was, for all intents and purposes, an Andrastean. Her position as a Seer, and all the heresy that implied, was of no consequence. It was an excitement, it was exotic, it was no threat to the Chantry so long as she knew all the right things to say, all the right rituals to perform.

Now, when she keeps her silence, she does so not only because it is what the Qun demands of her. It is because she knows how useless the action is. She had done everything right, and still, there had been the Annulment.

No, Madame de Fer has no need of prayer.

Still, when word that the Duke of Ghislain has taken ill to his bed reaches her, she does spare a thought: _Stay safe, my love. Stay alive until I can reach you again._

* * *

She was not, in fact, born to the Qun. People are always surprised when they learn that. She does not slip into old habits like other viddathari do, probably because she never understood them as habits. Rituals and the meanings behind them are transitory things, entirely dependent upon context. What is a gesture of concern in Fereldan is an invitation to stick something up your arse in Orlais. An opera considered to be the height of culture in the Marches is gauche and plebian in Antiva. The workings of the Qun are not so very different. Learn the motions and the meanings, and you can say a thousand things without ever opening your mouth.

She does not copy the mannerisms expected of a human ambassador, for all that she is performing the role of one. It is a choice, as all such things are: she does not want the Chantry to forget where her allegiances lay.

And she is terrified, that if she were to slip back into the etiquette or Orlais or Antiva or Rivain, that it might feel just as right and natural as the Qun does.

* * *

Varric spends a lot of time in the Chantry. No one bothers him there, no one wants to ask him about Hawke or for him to tell them a story. It’s not quiet, but the noise isn’t for him.

He appreciates that. It makes the Chantry a damn good place to write to his editor in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So: since Cassandra is an Arvaarad and Arvaarads are military, and under the Qun all military people are dudes, she would be considered by the Qun to be a man, and aqun-athlok. 
> 
> I have to admit, I'm not entirely sure what the best way to approach that is. The end goal for me, as far as Arvaarad!Cass's case of the genders is concerned, is to find some way to write about it without either taking away from Cassandra as the Inner Circle's lone female warrior, or diminishing the importance of not only Krem, but of the term aqun-athlok, which implies that there are a plethora of trans people in Thedas and (for the Qunari, at least) a place for them. And I don't want to hit anyone's misgendering triggers at all, just as a general rule of writing. 
> 
> Which brings me to the subject of this author's note: pronouns. 
> 
> I have tentatively decided that, so long as Cass is Qun loyal, to use 'she' when writing from her perspective, and 'he' when writing about her from someone else's perspective. This is not set in stone: one alternative proposed to me on twitter was to use 'they', and I'm sure that using the crowdsourcing magic of the internet, plural you the readers could come up with at least eight more alternatives. If one of those works better, I'll go with that one. 
> 
> Let me know what you think. I don't want this to be a source of hurt for anyone.


	4. Masquerade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They brought Vivienne back down to the South to play the Great Game.

Once the Qunari realized that she’d been recognized, things changed for Vivienne. The nobility they were negotiating with demanded her presence, and her docility thus far meant that they decided it was worth the risk off allowing her to speak to them for a few hours. She would convince Orlais to work with the Qunari, and in return, Orlais would be provoked into conflict when their chevaliers attempted her rescue. And as for Vivienne, herself, these arrangements allowed her more and more opportunities to learn of ways they might escape, of places they might hide.

Madame de Fer dressed to impress, a habit she was grateful to be allowed to pick back up. The Qunari knew very little about fashion, after all: for Orlesians, well, it was practically a second language.

She had to be cautious in this, she knew. The Tamassran was no fool, and the Tallis was- well. She recognized Marjolene’s protégé. She knew the stories from the Blight. The Tallis was the farthest thing away from a fool.

It was always a pleasure to have a worthy opponent, however, though she did wish the circumstances were less dire. If she took a wrong step, if she stumbled, she might never get back up again.

 _Caution, caution, caution_ , she thought to herself as she dressed. Better to underplay her hand now and see her leash stretched farther out than overplay it and lose this avenue to freedom.

They have been having these meetings for some days now, a tireless parade of nobility, lured by the excitement of the Qunari alliance, and the reappearance of illustrious Madame de Fer. Rumors of her death had greatly exaggerated her fame, or it would seem. That was an asset she intended to use.

On previous occasions, she would dress in a Saarebas’ Taaras-Saar. Dorian would help her, because he was as fashion-conscious as she, and because he knew of more complex patterns and knots to weave the ropes over her arms and legs into.

“They’ve got all these _meanings_ , those rope patterns,” Dorian had told her, the night after their first meeting. “The generic ones just mean ‘danger’ and ‘service to the Qun’. I kept the ‘danger’ for yours, and added some which mean ‘strength’ and ‘protection’, or so my third Arvaarad told me.”

Dorian had named his third Arvaarad ‘Arvaarad III the Liar’, which did not make him seem like a reliable source of information, but she could appreciate the sentiment behind his actions all the same.

Today, however, Dorian was leaving, heading to the Hinterlands with the Hissrad and his company of mercenaries. Given that her other options for help were Solas and the current Arvaarad, she had asked and received permission to wear Orlesian clothing.

She picked out a dress with a neckline that plunged, placing the web of qamek scars on prominent display, and a high collar that made the one she wore around her neck look less like an encumberment and more like an adornment. She wore the Duke of Ghislain’s colors: hopefully, as she also wore a saarebas mask, that would not constitute overplaying her hand.

Today’s meeting was with Lady Seryl of Jader, a loyal follower of Empress Celene’s, and someone whose borderland holding would be particularly threatened by this Qunari alliance. She was also a frequent guest of her Duke’s when he was in the capitol, and the petite elven servant she had brought with her had sharp eyes and the kind of hands that slipped a dagger between your ribs.

The Tallis saw this too, but with luck, she would presume Lady Seryl had brought a bard to spy upon the Qunari. With luck, Vivienne was correct in her assessment that the bard was there to spy upon her as well.

“I found the Qunari to be quite gracious hosts after the Annulment of my Circle,” Vivienne said. “Better than the Templars would have been.”

“And yet you seek to enlist the Templar Order’s aide?” Lady Seryl asked.

“Of course, my dear,” Vivienne replied. “I am still the Qunari’s. The Templars do not threaten that. Besides, the situation has changed: one look at the sky outside should be reminder enough of that.”

Lady Seryl nodded. With luck, either she or her bard would be able to decipher the meaning of her words: _This is better that death and only that, and I don’t expect the Templar Order to be interested in taking me back._

They would have to deal with the world’s ending first. Thankfully, that was said openly and often enough that the message could not fail to be heard.


	5. Qamek

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All three of the saarebas lived through it.

Arvaarad I the Worst had been more his interrogator than his Arvaarad. He’d been in charge of moving him from the mainland to the saarebas viddathlok on Seheron, and then finding out all the particulars of his life.

Dorian had told him everything, after a fashion. He’d told them his name, his mentor’s name, what he’d be working on as an Enchanter in Minrathous, that he’d run away from a blood magic ritual his father had been attempting to perform on him, about the stash of Qunari-themed porn that had been a minor obsession of his as a teenager, and that his favorite color was purple. He’d also told them that he was the Archon’s elf-blood bastard, that he was part of a plot to travel back in time to murder the current Arishok’s great-grandfather, that he’d once he’d gone on a bender and killed three high dragons with the help of a brothelful of friendly whores, that using baby’s blood in blood magic rituals had been considered passé since the Blessed Age, that he was actually a Laetan called Biggus Dickus, and that he had barely any magical talent at all.

Maker only knew what they’d done with all that information.

It was some weeks later (probably) that Arvaarad I the Worst decided that he’d wrung as much information from Dorian as he was going to get, and brought in the qamek.

Dorian knew what it was, of course. Every child of Tevinter knew the stories. The existence of the viddath-bas was often touted as irrefutable proof of the Qunari’s savagery. It had always bothered Dorian, the hypocrisy of decrying the Qunari’s use of qamek when so many in the Imperium were made Tranquil for political missteps, but he couldn’t find it within himself to roll his eyes at the propaganda right at that moment.

Arvaarad I the Worst forced his head into the substance, and Dorian choked on it, frantically clinging to focusing mantras, the Litany of Adralla, and then prayers.

Somehow or another, when he was allowed to surface, he was still himself. All of him was still there.

Arvaarad I the Worst was oddly gentle with him, turning Dorian’s face up to inspect it while Dorian was still shaking his way free of shock.

Dorian waited until the qamek had been removed from the room before he spat in his face. The look of shock Arvaarad I the Worst had worn was well worth the beating that followed.

* * *

“It is rare for a mage to willingly seek the Qun,” the Tamassran told her.

“I have always prided myself in seeing the truths others do not,” Vivienne replied.

She was not nervous, exactly. Rivain was a good place to grow up without fear of the Qun: people often converted, finding the Qun’s philosophy of communal good and emphasis on the material welfare of all to compliment their culture rather than crush it.

She knew of the qamek, of course, but also that it was a weapon of last resort, used against those of their own people who were unruly. She knew that saarebas had their lips sewn shut, but that too was a punishment for noncompliance. She had seen the saarebas before- bound and leashed, true, but also taking meals with their arvaarads, even speaking to them in hushed tones.

She would give them no reason to suspect any trouble from her, and in return, they would provide her with an avenue of escape, in time.

She did not know that qamek and lip-sewing was standard protocol when a mage converted, until the reality was upon her.

She had but a moment to realize what they intended, to gather her focus for the oncoming attack. She was a Seer, and as such, no stranger to another consciousness attempting to overlay her own. The same tactics that would push a spirit she’d been harboring back through the Veil would see her through the poison attempting to smother her will.

They had to work. They had to.

They did.

* * *

Qamek was a Qunari word, but the substance itself was not Qunari. Oh, in the centuries since he last walked the world, they had changed the composition somewhat: or perhaps the knowledge had been lost entirely, until some tamassran stumbled upon the idea once again, and a new generation of rebels and freethinkers were crushed by it.

It mattered little. Qamek was more volatile than the vir’din’mala had been, more prone to physical side effects, but it attempted to work its way through his mind all the same.

He was Fen’Harel. Forgetting was not in his nature, and he would remember this brutality long after its perpetrators were turned to dust.

* * *

“There are some individuals who have a resistance to qamek,” Arvaarad explained to the assembled salasari in charge of running the Qun’s portion of the Inquisition: a Tamassran, a Tallis, and another Arvaarad, all viddathari humans like himself. “They retain some of their memories, or their selfishness, or both. In rare cases, it is as though the qamek has no effect at all.”

He wasn’t sure who was running the Chantry portion yet. From all the confusion, it might have been no one. By the Qun, he’d forgotten how hectic people could be in the South.

“Are not such people killed?” the other Arvaarad asked. “If the qamek cannot work upon them, then are they not beyond help?”

“They cannot live as members of the Qun, no,” he confirmed. “They are too dangerous to be allowed out amongst people, even ones such as you and I, who are trained to deal with dangerous things. But that does not mean that the Qun has no use for them.”

“The Arishok has been expanding the role of saarebas,” the Tallis reminded them. “They are being taught different forms of magic. There are even the hissera amongst the ranks of the Ben-Hassrath now- saarebas agents which can be trusted to operate without the guidance of an arvaarad.”

“Only those born to the Qun,” the other Arvaarad said firmly. “Only those who’s magic manifested late, after they had begun to discipline their minds for a role in the priesthood. That does not describe what you have brought with you.”

“No, it doesn’t,” he acknowledged. “These are, in many respects, bas saarebas. They have highly specialized skills, which they have been teaching our hissera, under strict supervision.”

“More than that, I believe,” the Tamassran said, looking up from the missive he’d been instructed to give her for the first time. “The human male has a personal history with the leader of the Venatori cell that has overtaken Redcliffe. The human female was, until recently, a highly-respected member of the Court of Orlais.”

He blinked. He’d thought that Lady might have once been a noblewoman, but he had figured her as Rivaini, not Orlesian.

“And the elf?” Tallis asked.

“By all accounts, he has a knowledge of the Fade which far exceeds that of even the Circle mages kept by the Chantry,” the Tamassran answered for him. “Have their stitches been removed?”

“Yes,” he replied over the other’s Arvaarad’s disgusted noise. “Though I am keeping them muzzled. They gave me no trouble on the voyage over.”

“Very well then,” the Tallis said with a note of finality. “Thank you for performing your duties so well. Keep watch over your charges, and we will let you know when we require more.”


	6. Onomastics I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Iron Bull brings the saarebas Vint out to the Hinterlands, and Dorian puts up with Hissrad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains passing references to lore from Trespasser, but no plot spoilers.

“ _So what kind of staff do you use_?” Hissrad asked.

“ _Whatever kind you provide me with, Hissrad_ ,” Dorian reminded him. He sounded even testier than he’d been intending. It was taking a great deal of effort not to turn around and check on the tent the others were in. It was foolishness, this anxiety he felt over their separation: this was, after all, an important part of their escape plan.

They were taking him to the Hinterlands. Out of deference to the dangers that entailed, he wasn’t as tightly bound as he had been on the journey to Haven. His face was unmasked, the chain connecting his gauntlets was long and loose. True, he was still collared, and his collar was still suppressing his magic, and Hissrad held the control rod, but he could at least see where they were, and if there were any paths from the mountain they might be able to sneak away through.

Provided he didn’t get distracted by trying to catch a glimpse of Solas or Vivienne through the wool-lined canvass, that was. He was more nervous at the thought of not seeing them than he’d thought he would be, and he knew how quickly he could become attached.

“ _You can call me_ the Iron Bull _, big guy_ ,” Hissrad said. “ _All of my kith do_.”

“ _I don’t think I’ll be doing that, Hissrad_ ,” Dorian said, tamping down on the urge to point out that he wasn’t part of Hissrad’s kith for the moment.

It was a pity his third Arvaraad had already claimed the epithet of ‘the Liar’: he had a feeling that Hissrad was going to be of the same type. At least he wasn’t an ex-slave viddathari. Arvaraad V the Bitter had been one, and he had been decidedly enthusiastic about being in a position of extreme authority over a (former) Altus. Ultimately, he was a tad too enthusiastic, even for the Viddasala’s taste, and had been reassigned.

He could understand that sort of petty viciousness- empathize with it, even. That didn’t make it an easier to bear.

Hissrad shrugged, oblivious to his musings, and handed him a saartoh-bas vat katoh. For a moment he wondered how the Bull knew that fire was his favored element, and then he remembered that fire was generally the default element of saarebas in general.

Still, he wasn’t going to say no to a high-quality staff. He slung it over his back with a slightly awkward clanking of chains, and mounted his horse.

He made himself look at the position of the guard towers, rather than back at the tent.

* * *

The Bull wasn’t too happy about this situation.

He was used to being able to do things his own way, with his own wriggling grey-on-grey interpretation of his role within the Qun. The Bull had his boys, and Hissrad sent his information back. The Qun stayed way up north, and he stayed a loyal Qunari. It was a system which worked, and everyone got what they needed out of it.

Now, with the Qun coming down this far south, everything was just kind of awkward.

The saarebas- ‘Vint’ his Arvaarad had nicknamed him, and the Bull could believe it- was kind of an unfortunate encapsulation of his problems. He didn’t want to actually have anyone chained to him- not without their consent and a conversation about watchwords, at least- and he really didn’t want to look like the sort of person who would have no trouble tugging someone around on a leash in front of the Chargers. On the other hand, if he showed his discomfort to the Qunari, they might start poking around his boy, asking questions, looking for weaknesses. He _really_ didn’t want that at all.

He’d known the day was coming, when the Qun would start to conquer the rest of the world and bring them into line. But he’d thought it was a long day in coming: years and years from now, ages even, after they had managed to pacify Seheron.

Not in his lifetime.

He wasn’t sure what to make of a Qunari invasion in his lifetime, especially not one taking place so close to his boys. He would have to fight for the Qun, of course: either openly as Hissrad or by pretending to work for the other side. He wasn’t sure which would be worse.

He didn’t want to give up his boys. He didn’t want to give up their trust. But neither did he want to go Tal-Vashoth. He knew what Qunari were like without the Qun: he knew what he’d become.

It just seemed like if he didn’t want to hurt his boys, he might have to let the Qun do it. And the Qun would do it: they had too much personality to be of much use to it otherwise.

That was not a good thought to have.

He turned his attention back on the saarebas, still collared and chained, but unmasked, unmuzzled, with the stitches that had obviously been in his mouth removed. He rode on his own horse. The Bull had his control rod. It should have been a good balance: he had range of motion and the ability to speak, but was still obviously contained.

It just made the Bull more uneasy. The last time he’d worked with saarebas had been on Seheron, where as a general rule, the more freedom the saarebas were allowed the more to shit things were going.

He was already on edge when they heard the demons begin to spill out from a cave. He dismounted and was already charging to meet them when he remembered that the saarebas’ magic was still bound.

“Shit,” he said. He was too close to the demons to drop his guard. Hopefully he’d be able to kill enough of them before they reached where Vint was, looking pretty pissed off. “Shit, shitfuck vashedan…”

It was just his luck that there was a despair demon. It shot out a wall of cold ice that could serve as a form of cover while he fumbled around in the satchel for the control rod. He managed to enter the correct sequence before one of those lava fuckers broke through, and he had no chance to check on the saarebas’ position before he had to throw himself back into the fighting.

The saarebas’ position was, apparently, one that was good for setting fire to all the things, flames and glyphs shooting up so quickly that the Chargers had a hell of a time dodging the ‘friendly’ fire. Skinner’s hair got singed and he swore he could see a tan developing on Stitches’ face.

The demons actually got _hit_ by his spells, though, and they went down, shrieking as the pretty, intricate patterns of the saarebas’ flames burned them into dust.

He chanced a look over at Vint, then. He didn’t like what he saw.

“Uh, Chief?” Krem called out, finishing off one rage demon in a clean, swift stroke. Fire didn’t work as well on rage demons, so they were the last ones standing.

“Yeah, Krem?”

“That’s an Altus, Chief.”

“Yeah,” the Bull replied, slightly strained. Things had gone from a pitched battle to utter carnage in their favor in less than three minutes. “Looks that way.”

Vint, for his part, flicked the end of his staff over towards the cave the demons had come from, and crushing the entrance in upon itself.

“ _Next time, Hissrad, I recommend unbinding my magic first_ ,” he grit out.

“ _I hear you_ ,” the Bull replied.

Krem went around, checking to make sure everyone had come out of the skirmish okay. Skinner made a note of where the demon cave was on her map. The Bull watched Vint, who just stood there, clutching his staff like a child’s toy, watching them all with deep suspicion.

“ _Tell you what_ ,” the Bull said. “ _Next time, I recommend keeping your friendly fire farther away from the kith._ ”

“ _I hear you_ ,” Vint replied.

The Bull very obviously put the control rod back in its holder without binding the saarebas’ magic again. Vint’s eyes went very wide, and then narrowed, the suspicion coming back twice as strong for its absence.

The Bull shrugged. “We ready to roll, Krem?”

“No, but we can get back on our horses and head out, Chief,” Krem replied.

* * *

“ **What is your name**?”

Dorian startled at the sudden unexpected use of Tevene. “ **I shit on your tongue!** ”

“ **What, did your parents hate you or something, to name you that**?” Hissrad asked, having the gall to look amused.

Dorian glowered at him, and was gratified to see the smug expression slide from the Qunari’s face.

“ **I was just wondering if there was something you’d like to be called other than Vint** ,” Hissrad explained with mock gentleness.

Dorian continued to glower.

“ **Look, I know you must have been pretty far into your teens, at least, when you got caught** ,” he said. “ **You don’t learn to cast like that under the Qun.** ”

Dorian had taught at least three dozen saarebas to cast like that, and had to bite down on his tongue to keep from informing him of such.

“ **You don’t have to tell me your name, if you don’t want. Just tell me what you’d rather be called, if you’d rather be called anything besides Vint** _.”_

He still sounded patient, and understanding, but Dorian’s tolerance for such mind games had been shot into the Void long ago. “ _I’m sure the Qun provided you with all the answers you seek, Hissrad_.”

Hissrad blinked at the abrupt return to Qunlat. “ _Alright, fine, have it your way, big guy_.”

Dorian determinedly settled down in his bedroll, facing away from Hissrad.

“ _I’m going to have to bind your magic again_ ,” Hissrad said, sounding apologetic. Dorian rolled his eyes at the farce. “ _I know that dreams can be a bit weird for mages and demons_.”

“ _Do as you see fit, Hissrad_ ,” Dorian ground out, and couldn’t quite suppress a flinch as his magic was quashed once more.

“ _Good night_ ,” Hissrad said.

Dorian grunted, and willed himself to sleep.

* * *

The Bull stayed up for a while after Vint started snoring.

He still didn’t like this situation. He didn’t like it one bit.

There was a missive he had in his satchel, next to the control rod. “Do not open this until you arrive at the Inquisition’s camp,” the Tallis had instructed him. It was probably about Vint, about why it was so important that they get him to Redcliffe village.

It probably would provide him with all the answers he sought, once he opened it. Once he was allowed to open it.

Sleep didn’t come easily that night.

* * *

Dorian could have sobbed with relief when the familiar sight and smell and general ambiance of their little corner of the Fade enveloped him. The rooms changed slightly every night, but never so much that it didn’t feel like safety, of a sort.

He hadn’t been sure that it would still work over such a large distance. He had, in fact, been more than a little afraid to ask.

“Is everything going well for you, my dear?” Vivienne asked, once he’d told them all he could about the placement of guards and the path down the mountainside.

“Actually, yes,” Dorian said. “I’ve been kept unmasked and given a relatively free range of motion. I even had my magic unbound for most of the journey- though he did it back up when we turned in for the night, in case I might break out in demons in my sleep. All-in-all, I think he might be going the ‘nice arvaarad’ route.”

Vivienne and Solas exchanged uneasy glances.

“Not that I think he’s actually like that,” Dorian assured them. He’d fallen for that trick before, and had no intention of doing so again. “I only bring it up, because if Hissrad is playing nice, then it’s not unlikely that our shared Arvaarad might start to reign us in a little. Or just reign me in.” He shrugged, and took another sip of wine. It had been his turn to pull their beverages from his memory, and therefore it was delicious. “We’ll have to see. How are your parts going?”

“Well enough,” Vivienne replied, and Dorian let himself bask in the comfort of good company as she discussed her meeting with the Lady Seryl of Jader, and Solas discussed meeting his Chantry counterpart, an elven woman named Minaeve.

“You’re not thinking of bringing her in on this, are you?” Dorian asked.

“Bringing her in on what?” Solas asked.

“This,” Dorian said with a lazy flick of his wrist the encompassed the room. “She is a mage, is she not? I presume you could link her consciousness the same way you link ours.”

“I… would not consider that wise,” Solas said. “She is not the sort of person I would like to put in the crosshairs of a potential conflict between the Qunari and the Chantry. She’s young, and has an impatience with most people that’s offset by her high regard for Tranquil and animals.”

Vivienne snorted. “I’m not certain I would put the Tranquil and animals on the same level, darling.”

“No,” Solas agreed grimly. “One of those is an unnatural phenomenon. Besides, Minaeve still feels some loyalty to the Circles- to the Templars, even. She was Dalish, originally. When her magic manifested at the age of seven, her Clan turned her out, so that they wouldn’t attract the attentions of the Tempars- some of whom came to her rescue when a mob of human villagers wanted to kill her for the crime of existing. And now she researches dangerous creatures and makes sure that the Tranquil are not mistreated. I’d rather not add to that burden.”

“But you could link another mage into our group?” Vivienne asked.

“Yes. If they were someone we trusted. And it would be much more readily done if it was someone I could see them in the waking world first, even in passing.”

Vivienne and Dorian exchanged looks.

“You each have a list, I presume,” Solas said with a long-suffering sigh.

“I can certainly draw one up,” Vivienne said.

“I can only think of one mage I trust, apart from the two of you,” Dorian said slowly. “And I’m not even sure whether or not he’s still alive. They’re taking me to his father, or so I would presume. I’ll… get back to you.”

Solas and Vivienne nodded, and then Dorian started awake as Hissrad let out a great snore.

“ **Beast** ,” he snarled under his breath, and shoved his blankets over his head.


End file.
